


legends and lanterns

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Ghost-Hunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-07 04:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21452353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: Prouvaire invites Combeferre to an evening of ghost-hunting.
Relationships: Combeferre/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	legends and lanterns

Standing in the freezing cold, a thermometer in one hand and a barometer in the other, Combeferre is still having the best night of his life. Prouvaire stands beside him, the dancing light of his lantern matching his shining eyes. He is shivering and his cheeks are flushed a deep red, with excitement or cold, Combeferre did not know. At the very least, he did not seem bothered.

Ghost-hunting had never been very immediate on Combeferre's list of things to do. It was there, certainly, hovering somewhere between fourth or fifth in the list of importance, but his studies in medicine very rarely left him with the time to do much else. Additionally, ghosts, as defined by anyone with authority in the matter, would only be spotted in the dead of night. Combeferre had never much liked the dead of anything, even when he haggled over them in the marketplace.

But Jehan had insisted, as one last indulgence before his exams, and this time, at the very least, would not result in both of them, having overindulged in hashish, contemplating the virtues of staging snail dueling matches and speculating on where to get the appropriate armor.

Not that the experience was entirely unpleasant, but Combeferre could do without waking up covered in his calculations for the dimensions of snail helmets, and without the slightest memory of what he had studied the day before.

Jehan sneezes, bringing Combeferre back to reality. He offers his handkerchief, and Jehan winks at him before proceeding to tuck it back into his pocket, proclaiming that it was not needed. His fingers linger, long after the handkerchief is secured.

Combeferre will treasure that handkerchief, after this night. He is determined to not emulate Marius (whose tale had been revealed to Courfeyrac, and by Courfeyrac to the rest, once he had stopped laughing long enough to tell it), but there are other methods less extreme.

"You may have done me the kindness of holding my hand," Jehan says, smiling.

Comebeferre glances helplessly at his instruments, and Jehan laughs (quietly, so as to not startle the ghosts) and threads his arm through Combeferre's.

Combeferre does not remember feeling cold, although the snow is falling and the wind is blowing, and by all accounts, he should be feeling rather numb. But he is acutely aware of how his sleeve rubs against his elbow, and how thick the layers of cloth and lining are.

They step around the building together, quiet in the way ghost-hunting encourages. Combeferre first attempts to recite the bones of the hand in his head, but abandons it in favor of squinting at the windows of the buildings, and nudging Jehan whenever he spots something.

"It is only a curtain," Jehan says.

"That was a moonbeam."

"In the name of all the gods, Combeferre, please clean your spectacles."

He cannot, with one arm held by Jehan and both hands full. He ends up squirming, trying to indicate this, and his face heats when Jehan grabs the spectacles off his face and rubs them on a corner of his sleeve. The smudges only end up growing blurrier. Both of them notice, but neither of them mention it, too distracted by the sounds of the wind and the rustles of the leaves.

They watch, or make an attempt to watch, for the ghosts. Nothing appears at the windows, no wails echo within the walls. It appears, for all intents and purposes, to be a thoroughly unhaunted building, despite the whispers of the gamins and the workmen. Jehan proposes climbing the vines that burrow into the stone bricks, but Combeferre would not hear it.

"Indeed, my bones may break, and your professors impressed with your practical knowledge once you've set them, and I shall have the knowledge of pain—"

"—and you might have the knowledge of death, and break your neck, or your spine. You cannot set them, they will not heal, and I did not set out this evening to _create_ a ghost—"

"I meant to introduce you," Jehan says, after a long while.

"To whom?"

"Some friends. They write, and meet in their rooms, and speak about mortality." Jehan shakes his head, an airy dismissal. "There was a gathering last Tuesday. I was so looking forward to it." He sounds put-out.

Combeferre thinks back. "There was a lecture, and a dissection—"

"—Oh, I know. You said."

Insight dawns. "You are mad at me."

"Perhaps."

"But, why—"

"—it is exceedingly embarrassing to be showing off your 'naturalist companion' when said companion is not currently present." Jehan flares up, then settles back into tranquility. "I had _told_ them that you were coming."

"I'm sorry."

"They would have loved you."

Combeferre murmurs something under his breath, and Jehan's entire face takes on a distinctly red glow.

"I should lock you in my rooms the next time you fall asleep on the settee. You shan't leave, and the windows shall always be open, and we will live on moonshine and starlight."

It is not an entirely displeasing thought, and Combeferre says so. Jehan beams, but assumes a countenance of seriousness quickly.

"All is forgiven," he says magnanimously, with an imperious wave of the arm. Its effect is slightly ruined by the wet thwack his cloak makes when it strikes him squarely in the mouth. He sputters, indignant, and Combeferre suppresses his chuckle.

"Let me make it up to you," he says instead, as earnestly as he can make it.

"How?" Jehan looks straight at him and lifts one eyebrow, cocking his head to one side. Combeferre cannot quite refrain from what he does next.

"I did tell you that you were forgiven," Jehan says when they break apart. His voice pitches downward, and he clears his throat. "That was, strictly speaking, not necessary."

"Yes."

"Now that I have said that," he says, whispering as though it was a secret, "it would be very nice for it to happen again."

It does. They continue walking.

"You have no right to look that smug, you know."

Combeferre's smile only widens.

They have gone around twice, and Combeferre is uneasy with the silence. His thoughts flick around, refusing to settle. Beside him, Jehan is starting to fidget, and snow seems to have melted past his furred cape and soaked into his shirt.

"Here," Combeferre says, disentangling himself as much as he was able. "Take my coat."

"I have no need of it!" Jehan protests. He looks almost drowned, in his gaudy clothes, and his teeth are starting to chatter. Combeferre thinks he can safely ignore the protest.

"Now is not the time." He somehow manages to wrestle off the coat without breaking the instruments in his hands, and he perches it on Jehan's shoulders. It hangs there, limp and awkward and black, looking far too big for him. Jehan touches it as though it were a precious thing.

"...Thank you." Jehan hesitates, then leans his head against Combeferre's shoulder, just for an instant. His cheek comes away crusted with snow. Combeferre has the urge to brush it off, and mourns his inaction as Jehan does it himself.

"It was nothing."

This time, Combeferre is the one who threads their arms together.

Nothing unusual happens, no unusual sights, smells, or sounds. The thermometer registers lower and lower temperatures, and the barometer does nothing except perhaps get frost inside.

"I don't see anything," Combeferre says, and he has never regretted making an accurate observation before now, except it means he and Jehan will now take leave of each other, and he will have to return to his rooms, where his books are neatly organized in preparation for studying, and there is no company except the old skeleton and perhaps the newly-acquired left arm, and the morning is still very far off.

"Neither do I," Jehan says with a sigh, and he keeps his arm where it is. He swears, in Latin, polite as only he can make it. "Do you know why?"

Comebeferre talks about variables then, and he's grateful for the words, even though his tongue feels clumsy in his mouth, with Jehan murmuring poems under his breath, recalling other instances of literary ghosts. At least his voice is clear, and carries through the midnight air. It is a crime to not hear him, even though only half of what he is saying is in any tongue Combeferre has learned.

"We should bring an offering, the next time," Combeferre concludes, after a long silence. He regrets that too.

"I was about to say so," Jehan says, narrowing his eyes accusingly. There is snow on his nose, and all around his hat. The flowers tucked into the ribbon are covered with frost. His laugh sounds like wind chimes. "Confess, blackguard, to your crimes, of stealing thoughts from my mind, and words from my throat, sounds from the very tip of my tongue—"

"—impossible," Combeferre declares.

"I quite agree, but I would have liked to hear you confess." Jehan faces him, and he is beaming, and the lantern light dances over his reddened cheeks, and Combeferre's next words freeze in his own throat.

"—we cannot scandalize the ghosts," Jehan reproaches, as if he could read Combeferre's thoughts. "Have you no care? If they looked out from this windows this instant, and they saw, and they'd hate us, and we would never see them ever again, not now, never, never, ever. For shame," and he swats Combeferre's shoulder playfully. "We'll return after your exams, when you've passed with flying colors—"

"—if," he corrects, halfheartedly.

Jehan pauses for only a second. "As I was saying, _when_ you've passed with flying colors, and you needn't look at me like that—I tell only the truth—we will burn offerings and bring candles for the rituals." His eyes gleam. "We'll need to do _research_."

Combeferre agrees, already planning his next excursion to the libraries, and the methods of arranging his notes, and Jehan laughs, and fancies he can hear Combeferre's brain whirling with activity.

"We need to go back," Combeferre finally says. Jehan's arm is still tucked against his own.

"Of course. Lead the way."

Combeferre blinks. "We go in opposite directions."

"Of course not. I must go with you."

He attempts to disentangle himself. It does not go well. "I will be studying."

"Then you will be studying. I will accompany you."

He makes another halfhearted attempt at escape. "I will not sleep."

"I already know that."

"You may leave at any time."

"I shall keep that in mind." Jehan's grip only grows tighter. "Now, please lead the way."

Their arms stay linked throughout the journey home, and their shadows blend into one in the flickering lantern light.


End file.
